by S. M. Soto
“Thanks, Cal.”
He nods, looking resolute. More like a man and less like the boy I’ve known most of my life. “Don’t let someone take away the fun in the things you love. They’re not worth it.”
My bottom lip trembles, and I shake the memory away. I can’t believe I let Skylar, and then Dean, take away the one thing I loved most.
My, my, how times have changed.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror. My dark waves hang around my shoulders, my eyes, a coffee brown, look tired, worn from the long nights and early mornings. Regardless, they pop against my tan skin, something I inherited from my parents.
There’s this twinge lodged deep in my chest whenever I think about my dad. It’s been months since we last had a conversation. And before that, our conversations were few and far between. I miss him. I’ve needed him, and all the times I’ve felt like my world was crumbling around me, I didn’t have anyone there to catch me. None of the people who were supposed to be there for me.
Frustrated by the melancholy train of my thoughts, I square my shoulders and get back out there. I’ve been gone long enough, anyway. Just as I’m leaving the bathroom, I round the corner and let out a sharp gasp when I crash into a solid, warm wall. I don’t need to look up to see who it is. Hell, I can tell just by the feel of his skin against mine and his distinct scent. I could pick out Callan Reed in a crowd of hundreds of people, even if I was blind. He’s ingrained in every vital piece of me.
Once I’m sure I’m not going to topple over, I risk a glance up at him, and my mouth dries. He’s staring down at me, that glare still painted on his face. I forget how handsome he is sometimes. He has this inexplicable ruthlessness and coldness about him that makes you want to peel back the layers and get beneath his rough exterior.
“Callan,” I say by way of greeting. It’s obviously the wrong thing because his eyes turn to shards of ice. His face shudders, and his jaw flexes.
“It’s Mr. Reed.”
“We’re not at the office. I think, all things considered, I should at the very least call you by your name to make things less awkward between us.”
“I’ve already told you you’re not getting paid to think. If I want you to call me Mr. Reed, then you’ll address me as Mr. Reed.”
I press my lips into a grim line, and my eyes narrow. “Are you an asshole to everyone these days, or am I the only special recipient?”
Callan steps into me, and my heart stutters in my chest at his proximity. “You’re not special, Daisy. You never have been.”
His words are a blow to the gut. My heart that’s already been beaten and fractured splits straight down the middle. Fighting back the tears that so desperately want to slip down my cheeks, I square my shoulders and meet his gaze head-on.
“Guess you’re still an asshole.”
Something indecipherable passes over his face. I expect him to spew more hurtful words back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he strides past me, and I watch him go, my heart panging sadly in my chest.
Past
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful, Daisy,” Dean groans, trailing his lips down my throat. With one hand secured around the back of my neck, he guides our movements. And with his other hand pawing at my thighs, I try to stay in the moment. I really do.
Dean reaches my chest and squeezes so hard I yelp into his mouth. He hums his approval, kissing me deeper and harder. Something uncomfortable niggles in the back of my mind. I mean, sure, this is the most logical step in our relationship, but I’m just… I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t even know if I want Dean to be the one. I always thought it would be Callan. I hoped it would, but I no longer see that happening. Not now and not ever.
The guilt is a force as it slams into me. Here I am, kissing my boyfriend and thinking about someone else entirely. Dean nudges me back on his bed and climbs on top of me, never once breaking the kiss. I want to tell him to slow down, but he’s so into it. I feel his hardness prodding my thigh. He starts rubbing himself on top of me, his lips trailing down my neck, pausing near my chest. My heart is pounding erratically, my skin is covered in sweat, and there are so many sensations, so many emotions slamming into me at once that I don’t know what to do.
When Dean tugs on my shirt, peeling one of the cups of my bra down, and his mouth latches onto my breast, I let out a moan that startles me. My eyes flutter closed, and I give in to the sensation until I feel him undoing the button on my jeans, trying to pull them down my legs.
“Dean, wait—”
“Shhh. C’mon, baby.” He covers my mouth with another kiss, stopping me from speaking, and proceeds to rub me between my legs. Panic begins to build in my chest, the haze of arousal slowly slipping away, and I stiffen.
“Dean, stop. I’m not ready.”
“Babe. Just lie back and let me take care of you.”
He trails his tongue across my skin, and instead of it feeling good, it has panic clawing at my chest. I shove at Dean’s shoulders.
“I said stop!”
He glares down at me, shock written all over his face. “What the hell is your problem, Daisy?”
Emotion clogs my throat, and tears burn the backs of my eyes. “I told you to stop, Dean. Why didn’t you stop?”
He shoots off the bed, scraping a frustrated hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you were being serious.”
“You thought I was joking?” I raise my voice incredulously, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Since when does stop ever mean keep going?”
“You’re being dramatic. Nothing even happened. Hell, we’ve been together for months. I’ve never had to wait this long with any other girlfriend.”
My face twists with disdain, outrage simmering low in my gut. “Well, I’m not any other girlfriend!”
“Obviously not.”
I recoil at his mumbled words as if he slapped me. He must notice the expression because he blows out an exasperated sigh.
“What’s the problem then, Daisy? You say you’re not ready, but what are you waiting for? It’s just your virginity. I’m not asking you to marry me!”
Slowly, I push off the bed.
I want to yell that I’m not ready.
I want to shout that I’m waiting for the right person.
I want to scream that I’m waiting for Callan to pull his head out of his ass, but I don’t do that.
“I’m not waiting for anything. I’m just… I don’t know, okay!”
Something dark passes across his features. The vein at his temple begins to pulse. “It’s him, isn’t it? You’re saving yourself for him.”
My heart drops, and my stomach churns anxiously.
“What? Who are you talking about?”
“Stop playing dumb. You think I don’t notice the way you look at him when you’re pretending you hate him?” Dean closes the distance between us and stares down at me, frustration written all over his handsome face.
I swallow thickly and take a tentative step back, away from his looming presence. “That’s not true.”
“When are you going to give up? He’s never going to notice you, Daisy, because Callan Reed is a fucking asshole. You’re waiting around for nothing.”
His words wrap around my heart and squeeze painfully. “That’s not true.”
“What part, the part about not wanting him or him never wanting you? Because I can tell you now, I know his type, and you aren’t it. I see the way he looks at you, and it isn’t what you feel for him. He hates you. Your crush is pathetic.”
He walks away, slamming the bathroom door behind him, causing me to jump. Iciness spills down the center of my chest and spreads. It makes it hard to breathe, hard to do anything, really. I grab my purse off his bedside table, and I leave. With tears streaming down my face and my heart thudding painfully in my chest, I head home.
Making a quick detour, I ring the doorbell to Rose’s house and am saddened when she doesn’t answer. Instead, it’s Callan.
“Oh, it’s you.” I sn
iff.
His brows pull down, and he glances outside, searching the street. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
“Is Rose here? I really need to talk to her.” My chin quivers with emotion. I trap my bottom lip between my teeth, trying not to burst into tears.
“She’s out on a date.”
I look down at my feet, feeling another wave of tears coming on. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fine. I should go.”
I turn to leave, but his hand encloses on my arm, stopping me.
“Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you crying?”
I shake my head. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”
His lips press together in a thin line as he searches my gaze, waiting me out. “Come on. No one’s home.”
I hesitate for only a second before nodding and following him inside. I expect him to sit with me in the living room, but instead, he heads toward the stairs, and I gape when he heads into his bedroom.
“Are you going to stand there all day or come in?” He quirks a brow. I jolt forward and try not to look too shocked as I take in his bedroom. It’s been so long since I’ve been here. Two years, to be exact. The last time I was here, he kissed me, and since then, our relationship has all but fallen apart.
Tentatively, I cross the threshold, and I take a seat on the edge of his bed, taking in how much everything about his space has changed. It’s not as cramped. It’s cleaner, and dare I even say, manly. More of his drawings are pinned to the wall—a collage of them.
My chest tightens when I think about him and the fact that he’ll be leaving soon. He’s been nothing but horrible to me the past few years, but for some reason, I still don’t want to see him go.
“Are you excited about New York?” I’m too afraid to look at him right now. I worry he’ll see right through me. He’ll see just how badly I don’t want him to go. I shouldn’t care. I have no right to want him to stay. He’s my best friend’s brother. Someone I once trusted. Now he’s no one.
He’s just a stranger who hurts me at every turn, except for now.
“Still have some time to go.”
A laugh tumbles past my lips. “It’s March. You’ll be flying out there in just a few months.”
“Yeah.”
I turn to him at his tone, brows lowered. “Why don’t you sound happy?”
He shrugs. “Still don’t know how I feel about it.”
“You should be happy. This is an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Maybe.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a weirdo. I’d be crazy happy if I found a ticket out of here.”
“Would you really?”
Our gazes clash, and a lump forms in my throat. “I think so.”
He searches my gaze for a beat, makes a huffing noise, then nods, almost to himself. An awkward silence descends between us, and it becomes glaringly obvious he isn’t all that happy to be leaving. I can’t understand why. This is an amazing opportunity.
“Ready to talk about it now?”
I sigh. “I told you I didn’t want to.”
“And I don’t care. What happened?”
I search his eyes, trying to figure out why he even cares. The whole time he just sits there, waiting patiently for me to answer.
“I was at Dean’s.” He tenses on the bed. I can’t physically see it, but I feel the sudden jolt from the mattress. “We were…uh, you know, kissing and stuff. And I don’t know what happened, but I told him to stop because I wasn’t ready, but he didn’t listen.”
Callan’s nostrils flare, and his lips press together. “That motherfucker. Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. He just…said some things. I got upset and came here to cry on Rose’s shoulder. Now, I’m pretty sure we’re done. Broken up. Hell, I don’t even know.”
His eyes blaze with heat. He’s still mad. Incredibly mad. “He forced you, didn’t he?”
I remain silent, because as much as I want to defend my boyfriend, I can’t. He did try to force me. Then he called me an idiot for not giving myself to him. I don’t say that, though.
“He wasn’t too happy when I said no.”
“I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Cal.” I sigh. “You can’t do that.”
“You’re not seeing him again,” he demands with so much finality in his tone, I’m taken aback.
A scoff climbs up my throat. “It was a misunderstanding. You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? You’re the one sitting here crying. I told you, you deserve better than that piece of shit, Daisy. You know it just as well as I do.”
I throw myself back on his bed and cover my eyes with my arm. “God, why are guys such assholes?”
Callan laughs. It’s warm and everything I’ve missed from our friendship. “Now who’s being dramatic?”
I nudge him on the arm, and I try to ignore the way my skin tingles when it brushes his. “I wouldn’t be talking—you’re the biggest asshole of them all.”
He chuckles, and it’s so carefree, so beautiful, I swear I feel the current travel through my body in waves. Craning my neck, I turn to look at him and startle when I realize he’s already watching me. His gaze is warm on my skin, glued to the side of my face. It has heat rising to my cheeks. We sit there for who knows how long, just staring at each other. Only the sound of our breathing and the hammering of my heart that I swear he can hear.
“Hungry?” he asks, voice thick. I’m not hungry, but I nod, anyway. “I’ll be right back.”
Once he’s gone, I sit upright and rest my head in my hands, trying to pull myself together.
What are you doing?
Stop lusting after him. He’s been nothing but an asshole to you.
This changes nothing.
Pushing off the bed, I head toward the collage of his drawings on the wall and inspect them. They’re all so beautiful, so unique. Most of them are buildings; others are cars, sports, things he loves. There’s even one he drew of him and Rose. It’s incredible.
I glance down at his desk and pause when I see his open sketchbook. I shouldn’t do it, but I find myself flipping through it, anyway. My breath is completely taken away by his drawings. Callan is extremely talented. I’ve never been surer of anything, but the creations in here? They’re otherworldly.
I’m flipping through the sketchpad, but pause when I get to the pages in the back. My heart stops. My breath gets lodged in my throat, and tears fill my eyes. Because they’re me.
Callan drew pictures of me. And he kept them.
They’re all in various poses, and in each of them, I’m wearing a different expression.
In some, I’m smiling.
In some, I’m clearly upset.
In some, I’m wearing a far-off look as I stare into the distance.
But the one I’m focused on is the one he drew of me sitting on our hill, the one that overlooks the levy, a sad look on my face. His ability to capture the expression I know so well is incredible. It’s also heartbreaking.
These drawings of me are so unlike the rest of the sketches throughout this journal. This style is different. It’s almost as though he drew these just for me—or just for himself. I flip through the rest of the journal, and sure enough, these are the only portraits.
I settle back on one page. The drawing is…beautiful. The way he drew me—with light shining down on my skin, highlighting my eyes—makes me look better than I do. More like a woman and less like a girl. I wonder idly if this is the way he views me. Is this what I look like to him?
Lightly, I run the pad of my fingers over the edges, marveling at his skill. It’s been hard, coping with the thought of him leaving, but when you have skills like this, I can’t imagine why he’d want to stay here. He deserves to go out in the world and do great things. I have no doubt that’s exactly what he’ll do.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I whirl at the rough sound of his voice and drop the notebook. It clatter
s to the floor at my feet. Callan stands in the doorway, two bowls in his hands. His nostrils are flaring, and his lips are pursed with disproval. I open my mouth to say something, anything to defend myself, or even apologize, but no words come.
Callan stalks across his bedroom, sets the bowls down, and snatches the notebook from the floor. I swallow, my gaze darting from him down to the notebook gripped tightly in his hands. He has a white-knuckle grip around the leather.
“Why did you draw me?”
His eyes flash to mine, and I’m nearly swallowed up by all the ire written there. I should be afraid. Some part of me should be wary of Callan, but surprisingly, I’m not. I think I was more afraid earlier with Dean than I am here with Callan. I suddenly have the need to know why he drew me. If he hates me so much, what would make him want to draw me that way?
Without saying a word, he tosses the journal onto the desk and bypasses me. I clasp onto his arm. “Hey! I asked you a question. Why are there pictures of me in there, Callan? Pictures you took the time to draw.”
My stomach dips as I await his answer. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, doing its damnedest to break free.
“Daisy…you don’t want to do this,” he warns.
I step in front of him, my brows pulled down, frustration simmering in my veins. “You don’t get to tell me what I do or don’t want to do. What I want is the truth. You claim to hate me. If that’s the case, if that really is true, why is my face all over this damn notebook, Callan?”
I didn’t realize how close we stepped to one another in my haze of anger until now. There’s little to no space between us. His body heat is sweltering. It engulfs me. My chest is rising and falling sharply, just to accommodate my heavy breaths. The tension thickens in the air between us, making it impossible to breathe, let alone think.
Callan licks his lips. His bright eyes blaze into me, heating me from head to toe. The intensity of his gaze has a texture to it, one I can feel on almost every inch of my exposed skin. He searches my gaze, and suddenly the space between us becomes few and far between. I don’t know how we’re getting closer, who’s the one doing the walking, but suddenly we’re chest to stomach. He stares down at me, still refusing to speak.